


Fine

by CaptainNautical



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Protective Sherlock, Quilt, Trigger Warning; rape, Violence, abandoned, sherlock can be stupid sometimes, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainNautical/pseuds/CaptainNautical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home after an argument with Sherlock wounded, bloody and barely able to walk after the miles he was made to trudge home out of stubbornness and a sense to keep all the dignity he can. It is of course on the first blizzard this year. Of course. What else did the man expect? But he's fine. Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a prelude to the actual first chapter of this fic. It is a work in progress and I really hope you like it even though its quite short

He had been made to stumble home in the cold on the night of the first true blizzard London had decided to host this year. Of course. What bloody else did he expect? John shouldered the door open to the flat, shivering fiercely and barely able to stand as he just barely got the door shut against the harsh wind that he had endured for miles. He collapsed to his knees and wrapped his arms around his chest. He pressed his forehead against the cool door with his legs bent uncomfortably under him, his eyes shut tightly against the dark that threatened to consume him, and his breath rising and falling in his chest as if he would never be able to catch it again. He could feel the thick blood running down his back and seeping through his pants and trousers to the carpet below him. He refused to acknowledge this, only telling himself he was fine. He had not died of hypothermia. He had not died of blood loss. He had survived the bruises and marks all over his body that painted his skin purple and red. But most of all he had survived being-- 

John's body convulsed, racking his frame and he wanted his bed. Managing to stand after a considerable amount of time he made his way up the stairs, barely able to keep the scream down that threatened to escape his throat. But he wouldn't scream. He would never scream or make a sound again if he could help it. John stopped at the landing leading to the flat and slowly dropped himself to the ground. Fine. He was fine. Absolutely fine there was nothing to tell Sherlock there was nothing to worry about and no bleeding to stop and no hands on his shoulders and hips to remember the feeling of as they dug into his skin. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. So he sat there, head in his hands and breathing with shallow breaths until the door to the flat flung itself open with a burst of brilliant light that John would realize later was only a lamp he had left on before leaving. John pointedly looked away from this light flooding into the hall and the shadow that had quickly occupied it. 

"I'm sure whatever you had planned was extremely important for you to be out this late but next time when I text you telling you a pressing matter has occurred with the case I-" Sherlock Holmes stopped himself, shutting his mouth quickly as he realized John was sitting still at the top of the stairs. John did not reply. He said his name again and the man did not even move. Sherlock took a few steps so he was standing next to him. 

"I realize I have upset you, but really this is getting out of hand here, I've-" The detective stopped himself once more as the sight of the crimson staining the ground beneath him. He immediately crouched and reached his hand out to touch the man's shoulder. John pulled away and shook his head quickly, muttering something Sherlock could not hear. 

He stood and moved, making his way to go up the stairs.

"John, what happened?" Sherlock asked as if he couldn't see the scene playing in front of his eyes in a view he wished he would never see for real. The man ignored him and remained quiet, limping his way up the stairs slowly. Sherlock followed him up and when they reached the landing John turned to him and held up his shivering hand, his cheeks still flushed red from the icy wind. 

"Don't. Don't touch me. D-Don't just.. just leave. I'm fine." He said, turning. His knees weak and his face draining. "I'm fine." He took another step up the stairs and his knees gave out. Sherlock reacted quickly and caught him under his arms as the man sagged into his. 

"M fine." John murmured as his eyes were beginning to shut.

"John you're not-"

"I.. fine.." John's eyes drifted shut, the absolutely panicked look of Sherlock Holmes filling his eyes as his vision blurred around the edges. 

"John. John no, no, no, no eyes open. Please don't- John? John!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The actual first chapter following the prompt before this. What happens leading up to John stumbling home on the freezing night into 221b.

[ Five hours before John is attacked ]

"JOHN." Sherlock yelled in the man's sleeping face, the sound as loud as some of the explosions his experiments would trigger in the kitchen. The man on the sofa jolted awake and threw his torso up, almost hitting Sherlock in the head as he did so. 

"What? What is it?" He asked quickly with concerned eyes searching Sherlock's passive ones. 

"Very nice reaction time. You may continue your nap." Sherlock said, patting John on the shoulder and turned to walk away.

John's face turned from concerned to pissed without a moment missed. "What the hell Sherlock?! I thought someone was fucking murdering you or that there was a fire or something exploded in your face again you idiot!" He yelled, rubbing at his eyes that had already missed a nights sleep prior to passing out on the sofa. 

"Immediate concern over well being for the other. Good, good." Sherlock hummed, moving to the desk to scribble something on a pad of paper. John Watson's head tilted to the side and his jaw popped.

"Tell me this isn't for the case." John demanded.

"Oh it is." Sherlock replied. 

"Where the hell is yelling my face while i'm sleeping going to get you then?”

“It is going to get me closer into to the reason how a man that is barely over even your age-”

“What’s that supposed to-”

“-could go without hearing the screaming of his step daughter from just the room over.” Sherlock said as he looked at his watch and noted the time. “Five exactly.” He muttered. John threw his hands up.

“Well jesus that’s across the room! At least do it from there and not give me a heart attack when you bellow in my face like that.”

“Of course. Won’t happen again.” 

John watched Sherlock for a moment and the other man ignored the look. John shrugged the blanket back onto himself and turned back into the corner of the sofa. “Good. It better not.” He mumbled as he closed his eyes against the soft cushion.

[ Four and a half hours before John is attacked ]

“JOHN.” Sherlock shouted once again from his seat in the kitchen. 

John flinched violently and thrashed his arms, falling halfway off the sofa in the process of doing so. “Oh fucking--” 

Sherlock leaned on the doorway of the kitchen’s sliding glass doors and raised his eyebrows as he watched John regain his former position on the sofa. John looked up at him and Sherlock almost, almost, thought about hiding in the kitchen from the fierceness in the man’s eyes as John shook his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t do that again you wanker!” 

“I said I wouldn’t do it in your face.” He checked his watch once more and went to the pad on the desk. “Would be clearly heard in another room.” He muttered word-for-word as he scribbled with his pen. 

“Jesus Sherlock just let me sleep.” John growled as he turned himself over. 

“But what if I actually-”

“Shut up!” 

[ Three hours before John is attacked ]

“JOHN!” 

This time John Watson kicked the blanket off of him and threw it at the man sitting in his usual chair with his fingers steepled and a curious look on his face. He was almost smiling now. 

“Sherlock bloody Holmes you complete arse head.”

“I did let you sleep for another hour. Was just curious this time though, running an experime-”

“Don’t you dare say experiment.” John pointed a finger at him and shook his head. He snatched his coat off of his arm chair and yanked one of his sleeves on. “I am not one of your ruddy experiments, Sherlock. I will not take part in them and be tormented just because you want to test some blokes hearing.”

“He is a suspect of three murders.”

“I don’t care if he’s Jack the ripper! Just leave me out of it. Especially after you’ve dragged me for miles just to find where he is and kept me up for at least two days straight before that on a case that you just had. I volunteered for that one.” He yanked the other sleeve on. “What an idiot I am for thinking you might just leave me the fuck alone after I helped you god forbid just like every other night of my life.” 

“You’re the one who writes a blog on me.” Sherlock muttered as he inspected a small rip in his chair. 

“When i’m in a good mood yes. And when you don’t interrupt my sleep cycles, yes.”

“Well then why come along at all then? If I bother you so much.”

“You don’t always bother me, Sherlock. Listen I just-”

“You’re not even useful most of the time anyway.”

John was stunned into silence. His brows rose and his lips parted slightly, shoulders sagging as if he had been physically smacked. Sherlock only stared up at him from his chair, half phased by the reality of what he had said. 

“Right.” John said dryly, the hurt evident in his eyes but not his voice or his posture that he had now fixed. He took his keys and phone off the end table by his chair and turned, taking the few steps to the door and closing it behind him. 

[ Two hours before John is attacked ]

John. SH

John. SH

John, I’m sorry SH

Where are you? SH

Walking. JW

Come home SH

Later. JW

[ An hour and a half before John is attacked ]

John. SH  
John I found something about the case. The brother was living with them as well. SH

Are you still angry with me? SH

Is silence a yes? SH

Fine then. SH

Will you check a house for me? SH

[ Half an hour before John is attacked ]

What house JW

On forty second street. SH

No JW 

[ Ten minutes before John is attacked ]

I didn’t mean that, earlier. SH

[ Five minutes before John is attacked ]

You are very useful to me. I would not be able to do half the cases if it wasn’t for you. SH

[ Three minutes before John is attacked ] 

John I’m sorry. I was wrong to say that. And I won’t wake you when you’re taking a nap unless it’s something very important. SH

[ One minute before John is attacked ] 

John this is childish pick up your phone. Why wouldn’t answer the call? It was only one comment damn it and it’s snowing harder now so you better not be outside still. SH

[Thirty seconds before John is attacked] 

John just answer me for at least one minute. I didn’t mean anything I had said and I am sorry. This is Sherlock Holmes telling you he is sorry for not realizing something. This does not happen often so you know he bloody well means it. Just come home, it’s storming badly outside. You can’t be walking now so where are you? Just at least tell me when you’ll get home, yes? SH

~~~~

There is a thump at the top of the stairs as soon as you go to leave and look for the man. (Even if John was mad he would respond at least more than three times to you.) Your brow furrows and you whip the door open to see him sitting there with his back to you, probably drunk off his ass. The alcohol (and a strange second scene) evident on his clothes. But he barely even responds to you as you speak and move forward. You notice his chest is just barely moving up and down. Your contempt for him and his rudeness for not answering falters.  
“John?”

It has escalated to a full panic as he reaches for the stairs.

~~~~

"John. John no, no, no, no eyes open. Please don't- John? John!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely feedback you guys it is much appreciated  
> (also the bar in this chapter i did get from that one place in skyrim  
> ye )

“Right.” John said dryly, the hurt evident in his eyes but not his voice or his posture that he had now fixed. He took his keys and phone off the end table by his chair and turned, taking the few steps to the door and closing it behind him.

~~~~

Want to go for a drink tonight? I was thinking of asking Molly as well GL

Oh, and I asked Sherlock already. Says he's not in the "mood" for it GL

Sounds perfect JW

~~~~

John sighed, the steam from his breath rising in the air and dancing in front of him for only a brief moment before it vanished in the cool air above him. The wind picked up and John shivered, tightening the scarf around his neck and lowering his chin into it as he walked. He blinked and lifted his head after a moment to look more closely at the scarf. He had grabbed Sherlock’s by accident instead of his own. He stopped walking in the middle of the crowd he was in and looked at it. The flow of people parted and went around him like fish evading a shark in the ocean. The shark turned around, deciding not to swim his way through the throng of people and back to his home. He wasn’t ready to yet. He would just wait for Lestrade instead. 

Another gust of wind blew in his face as he turned and John lowered his head once again, shrugging his shoulders against the shiver that racked his body. The smell of home and Sherlock filled his senses and he sighed into it once more, unconsciously holding the scarf with his left hand. He then remembered he was supposed to be mad at Sherlock and dropped his hand, placing it in his pockets once more as he trudged his way upstream and out of the school of fish posing as human beings. 

John felt his phone buzz in his pocket and ignored it. “Could be an apology.” He said to no one. John chuckled at himself. “Your hopes are too high, Watson.”

John I’m sorry SH

~~~~

What house JW

24th street SH

John looked around him, finding a street sign that signified his arrival to nowhere near 24th street.  
No JW

John pocketed his phone and looked up suddenly as he heard a whistle that sounded as if one of those cartoon women in those iconic red dressed had just been howled at by a wolf. “What a woman!” The cartoon wolf would pant to which the lady in red would turn and smack him across the face. John turned, expecting to see this scene unfold in front of him. Yet as he did so he grew disappointed to see no one but a man leaning against the stairs leading to what John guessed was his flat. The man took a long drag from his cigarette as he watched John. John raised his eyebrows and shook his head as he turned away. Perhaps it was just the wind. 

~~~~

John leant over the bar with his elbows on the counter and his chin placed on his hands. He sighed, pushing a peanut with his left forefinger as he waited for Lestrade or Molly to show up. The bar was rather empty and John was surprised with the pick Lestrade had made. Some pub he had never heard of (The Winking Skeever. What even was a skeever anyway?) that was practically in an alley due to the other buildings boxing it in. John’s ears flinched as he heard a few people enter, yet as he found no one say his name or sound anything like Molly or Lestrade he did not look up or move his position from resting his chin on his arm. He could practically fall asleep right now with the slow music playing and the low hum of chatter from the occupants in the pub. The bartender shuffled past him on the other side and said something about ordering a drink as she bent to grab a whiskey bottle for the young looking guy to the far right of John. John lifted his head and nodded.

“Might as well.” He said, ordering a beer for himself and reaching in his jacket for his wallet. 

“Make it two, on me.” A voice said behind John. A hand reached over his shoulder and flicked the money onto the counter where the lady behind it nodded her head, grinning slightly. John’s eyebrows rose and he turned his head to see a man leaning in next to him, his forearm almost touching John’s own. John tilted his head for a moment and then shook it. 

“No that’s alright you don’t-” 

“Pssht I insist.” The man said with his heavy set jaw and baritone voice. 

“Uh.. Who are you?”

The man leant back slightly as if he were offended. His lips turned to a smile and he tilted his head up, a loud wolf whistle leaving his lips. Exactly the one that had sounded earlier. John laughed, shifting slightly as the woman set the beers in front of him. The man grabbed the glass with his large and rough hand and tilted it to his lips, draining it in one swift motion. He looked back and raised his eyebrows at John.

“What?” The man inquired. 

“You can’t have seriously whistled at me.” John said sipping his own drink. 

“Oh but I did. Didn’t you hear me? I can do it again if you like.” He said and John noticed the slur already forming in his voice. He wondered how long he had been here. Could he have known he would be here? “If you really need another demonstration of the powers you have over me.”

John’s face turned a slight color of red. “Listen I-”

Another whistle exploded from the man’s lips. A few people around them turned and gave annoyed looks. John looked back at them, wondering if they could feel the distress signal he was emitting with his eyes. 

“I’ve got a wager going on.” The man said as he inched closed to John, his forearm now definitely touching John’s own. John moved away from him, trying to ignore him by checking his phone and seeing a message from Lestrade light up his screen. 

John, I’m really sorry I have to cancel tonight. Something importants come up with the Yard. Really sorry mate. GL

John sighed exasperatedly and turned his head, reminding himself of the man that was far too close to him. 

“What, am I interrupting?” the man said, pressing a hand to his heart. John sighed inwardly and gestured a hand towards him.

“Do continue.” John muttered.

“My wager,” the deep voice continued, “is ten pounds that I will have you by the end of the night.” He rasped, smiling in John’s face. 

John tilted his head, his eyebrows shooting up once more. “Uh, no I don’t think so mate. Listen i’m not really…”

“What? Into men? I can fix that.” The man smiled, sitting down next to John and ordering another drink for the two of them. 

John shook his head, his hand waving slightly at the tall man sitting beside him. “No, I’m really not interested. I’m leaving anyway so if you could just calm down there stud and leave me alone that’d be swell.” John stood, paying for his half of the drink and grabbing his (Sherlock’s) scarf off of the chair. The hulk of a man frowned slightly, leaning his one elbow on the bar counter and the other on his chair. 

“Fine, fine. Don’t want ‘ol Jackies company then so be it.” 

~~~~

John left the bar and shook his head as to get rid of the smell and the feeling he had caught talking to that man, did he say his name was Jack, for so long. He was winding the scarf back around his neck as Sherlock always would when suddenly the back of his jacket was pulled backwards. John let out a noise of surprise as his body was hauled backwards and down the now terribly dark alley. 

“Hey! What the hell? Let go of me-” John struggled against the hands that he could not see the owner of. The boots of the same owners feet connected with the inside of John’s knee, the other subsequently giving out and leaving John vulnerable to have his body slammed fully to the ground and dragged away. 

Which of course, is exactly what happened. 

“Fuck just let me go what do you want?” John gasped as his collar choked his neck and his hands clawed at the paw wrapped around his jacket. 

“Well I told you there, stud.” A horribly familiar voice sounded as the owner of the hands. Jack leaned over John and made his face visible to the man under him. “I want you.” He said huskily. A twinge of panic coursed through John’s spine at this.“Couldn’t let you leave. Sorry.” Jack shrugged and continued to take John down the alleyway that seemed to never end at this point. 

John was hauled to his feet and slammed against a wall. “What’s your name stud.” Jack said, leaning in and smelling John’s neck. John’s heart was in his throat. He could practically feel it. Jack looked up from where he had pressed himself against John and raised his eyebrows. “What is. your. name.”

“John.” He responded with grit teeth. At this moment he raised his hands and pushed Jacks away, making a run for the end of the alley that he couldn’t even see. 

He was rewarded with another snag to the back of his jacket and another slam to the ground. John gasped, the wind being forcibly taken out of him at the impact. Jack slammed a boot onto John’s hand and John cried out, feeling and hearing the snap as his finger curled under the hard surface. John was taken by his shoulders once more, his chest pressed against the cold brick wall this time. 

“John, John, John.” Jack purred behind him as his hips pressed against John’s own, his legs on either side of John’s. Jack’s hands pinned John’s own behind his back. John wriggled himself to try to get away but was stopped by the disgusting moan that Jack made behind him. John tried to kick the man or step on his foot hard enough for him to falter. A successful kick to Jack’s shin had John pulled back and slammed against the wall, his face colliding with the rough brick, his cheekbone being practically sliced in half. John whined slightly, feeling his chest depress and the pressure on his back as Jack leaned even further into him. 

“Please don’t do that John.” Jack said, his one hand gripping both of John’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip while the other snaked up the hem of John’s jumper. 

John’s breath hitched in his chest. “Stop, stop get the fuck off of me-- just don’t.” John’s voice was smothered against the wall and Jack kissed the nape of his neck. John shuddered. “Stop it.”

“You’re going to have to make me.” Jack shifted himself and John sucked in a sharp breath.

The brain is a complex and intricate thing. Thousands of neurons firing off at once telling you to pick up this, remember that. Telling you when to be quiet and when to yell, when to love and when to hate. Hundreds and thousands of chain reactions firing off in succession to one another like a line of fireworks ready to burst into brilliant light. 

These specific reactions exploding in John Watson’s brain told him to panic. Told him to scream and get this man off of him and do it now before-

A scream tore itself from John’s throat in an agonized whine. Jack had shoved himself inside of John. The feeling of the skin spreading and tearing and the guaranteeing sound of this happening filled his senses and threatened to drown him. 

John tried to push himself away. To maybe wriggle enough so he could be off the wall and could run if he had the strength. Jack almost growled, ramming himself against John and biting fiercely at his neck. John whimpered, hating the noise as it left his lips.

“Please, please stop. Fuck, get the hell off ge-”

Jack moaned, his movements becoming fluid as his length became drenched in John’s blood. 

John’s mind had blasted into a full on panic. He wanted him off. He wanted him gone. He wanted home. He wanted to stop sobbing and begging. He wanted his bed. He wanted to die. He wanted Sherlock. 

John, through the agony clawing at his back and slamming into his behind, felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Suddenly his pleading became desperate. 

“Please, please go-- ah- stop get off of me Jack!”

Jack hummed and bit once again at the already sore spot on John’s neck.  
“Mhn- Sherlock, god please Sherlock help-!” Tumbled out of John’s mouth in a horribly desperate plea, craning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut through the tears that he wished he could drown himself in, waiting for the detective to appear. Maybe he had followed again god he had to of he-

Jack would not stop. He had already emptied himself inside of John and still continued his movements, a hand now scraping against the mans back. Thick crimson lines that stripped John’s dignity apart. John’s screaming and pleading and whimpering gradually became louder and more desperate as he could take no more.

“Ah-”

“Oh stop being a baby, Johnny.” Jack grunted and latched a hand around John’s throat to cut off his airway and stop his pleading. 

John’s brain screamed out at him. He clawed at the paw crushing his neck and gasped as Jack forced John’s head to crane backwards. 

When Jack finally, after an eternity in which time trudged on with feet of lead, let go of John the man crumpled to his knees in a shaking, sobbing, heaving and bloody mess. He had suddenly become hollow as Jack pressed a rough kiss to John’s head and reached into his pocket, taking his phone and slamming it to the ground. 

John sobbed out, moving towards it as if it were Sherlock himself that lay in pieces in front of him. Jack hummed into John’s ear and pushed him to the ground. The larger man turned, pulled up and zipped his trousers up fully. He left with a swing in his step and his head tilted upwards, whistling to the snow that fell gently onto his face and onto John Watson’s convulsing back.

John’s ears were ringing so loudly that he could not hear the scream that ripped from his mouth as he pressed his forehead roughly into the bloody cement under him. 

~~~~

“I’m fine.”

~~~~

“What the hell do you mean it will take longer with the storm? He cannot wait another ten goddamn minutes that the hospital is not prepared for weather like this. So help me god I will fucking carry him there if I have to. He will have died by then!” Sherlock’s voice cracked at the end and he had to lower the phone with his shaking hand. He glanced over and found with a jump that John’s eyes had flickered open.

 

“John?” He rushed to the man’s side and knelt to reach his hand up and cup John’s cheek as gently as he could. “Eyes open, stay awake this time alright? No, no don’t move. It’s alright you’re okay.” Sherlock’s voice was soft yet strained and John had never heard this tone come over his friend. “It’ll be fine. Everything’s gonna be okay just stay- John?” 

John’s eyes had begun to droop and his face slackened, lower lip trembling as the world around him spinned out of control in a gray haze. 

“John. John no don’t- please don’t John I need you to stay awake. The ambulance will be here in a minute just- just--” 

John’s eyes closed and he was consumed with darkness, a familiar wolf whistle sounding in his ears as he drifted into nothingness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All this feels strange and untrue  
> And I won't waste a minute without you  
> My bones ache, my skin feels cold  
> And I'm getting so tired and so old  
> The anger swells in my guts  
> And I won't feel these slices and cuts  
> I want so much to open your eyes  
> 'Cause I need you to look into mine  
> Tell me that you'll open your eyes"  
> -Open Your Eyes, Snow Patrol

“Won’t be gone for long. Have to grab your chart that’s been updated for us.” The nurse said as she adjusted the I.V in John’s arm and the several pillows they had propped against his back. He looked up at her and nodded slightly. She tried a smile with him but he looked away and leant his elbow on the side of the hospital bed, the sound of the woman giving a light hum (that reminded John of Mrs. Hudson) and her feet padding against the linoleum floor filled the room before it was silent once again. Silent save for the low hum of his heart monitors and the energy of the hospital beyond the window at the other end of the surprisingly empty room. It was dark and gray in this room, John conveying to the woman earlier that he did not want the artificial lights on. The opposite window with the snow falling in a silent and gentle presession was enough for him.

 

They had not needed to do a major surgery. Stitches and staples on his back, bandages for his hand and his chest where they had found a rupture in his rib, and a type of medication for his bum to help him with healing. They had told him he would have trouble walking for quite a while until this healing happened fully and that there was a chance he would have a slight limp for the rest of his life. They had told him of the other side effects of rape and what he would have to do this. He had listened with deaf ears.

 

They had not covered up all of the bruises and marks on his body and John wished they had. He lifted his right hand that had not been broken and ran the pads of his forefinger and middle over a rough and raised area on his cheek.

_Jack slamming you against a wall, your face scraping against the cold brick in front of you as there is a certain pressure against your back._   
  


John raised his hand and pressed it to his eyes. He wondered if Sherlock would be able to teach him how to delete things.

 

As if his thoughts were a cue to what was going on around him, there was a knock on the door and it opened slowly, letting in an orange light to the grayness about him. Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room and closed the door behind him as quietly as he  could. As many times as John had thought Sherlock had looked in his element in hospital rooms with the injured and most times the dead, John noticed now how out of place he looked here and now.

 

He looked tired and worn, his eyes a darker shade underneath them than usual and his face pale except for his cheeks where the winter wind must have blown across them. He fiddled with the scarf and another bag in his hands and moved closer to the bed, the nurses must not have known he was here in the first place.

 

“I brought you another pair of clothes. They had said I could yesterday when they admitted you.” Sherlock said, breaking the silence and setting the bag of clothes on the end of the bed.

 

John nodded his head. “Thanks.” He muttered, looking down at the clothes and leaning forward to reach for them. Sherlock pulled them forward for him and pretended it did not happen as he pulled a chair up closer to the side of John’s bed.

 

“Is it alright If I-”

 

“Yes go ahead.” John nodded again, sitting up as he looked in the bag to find his favorite jumper and a pair of jeans and briefs and his own scarf instead of Sherlocks. “Do they uh.. Know you’re here?” He asked, adding a thank you at the end as he felt the fabric of the jumper.

 

“They do not. But they weren’t going to stop me anyways so.” He waved it off with his hand.

 

There was a silence that followed and John looked up as it occurred, not knowing Sherlock to be the one for silence. When he found Sherlock’s eyes they were fixed on his own with a foreign expression in those eyes.

 

“John I had never… This wasn’t supposed to happen and I’m so..” Sherlock trailed off, heaving a sigh as if it were physically painful. “I’m so sorry that I drove you away like that and-”

 

“Sherlock.” John said gently and the man stopped even though he had barely heard it. John sighed himself and shook his head. “You didn’t do anything to cause this.” John shook his head, flexing his jaw as he looked away.

 

Another silence fell over the room and John did not feel like looking up this time. The minutes ticked by and John wondered what the nurse could be doing. The possibility that Sherlock had taken her out to get her entered his brain and he almost smiled.

 

“We have to find him, John.”

 

That almost smile went away from where it almost was and John looked up quickly at Sherlock. He this time shook his head quickly. “No.”

 

“John I have to.” Sherlock insisted. “He cannot get away with this. No one should get away with this. John he can’t just do this to you and walk away like it is nothing at all.

 

(Jack strolling down the alley with his hands in his pockets, disappearing into the dark night.)

 

Not like this and not you.”

 

John continued to shake his head. “No Sherlock, you can’t. You can’t go after him and I won’t let you.”

 

“And why not. He has to suffer.”

 

“Let someone else find him.”

 

“And let someone else get raped? By the way he knew to choke you to stop the screams. By the way he knew you were in shape and to throw you against the wall a few times before being able to pin you to it. The way he must have followed you and pursued you and the way he knew what he was doing with you tells us this has happened before.” Sherlock stopped himself and looked over to John with a new set of eyes unlike his deducing ones. The Sherlock eyes and not the Sherlock Holmes eyes.

 

John’s eyes had changed as well. They were his soldier eyes that Sherlock had rarely seen. “Sherlock you are not going after him.” He said in a voice that was shaking along with his hands.

 

“John-”

 

“And you need to leave.” John glanced up at him and then away towards the window on the other side of the room.

 

“I didn’t mean to-”

 

“Now, Sherlock. Get out before the nurse comes back and kicks you out.”  

 

_Because you cannot do it yourself._

 

Sherlock blinked, and then nodded his head slightly. He stood and without another word he replaced where the chair was on the side of the wall and opened the door. The orange light filtered in once more and was replaced with the grayness as Sherlock closed it with a small click.

 

John leant his head on his hands as soon as he was gone, tears he did not want there filling his eyes and a tightness welling in his throat from the effort of trying to keep them away. He was a soldier. He was strong and was taught to be unbreakable. When in reality he had turned out to be just another toy soldier discarded because of a broken piece.

 

The nurse knocked on the door quietly and entered the room. John wiped his eyes to try and conceal himself but the nurse saw anyway. She said nothing, however, and set a cup of tea she had brought for John on the bedside table. She patted his arm gently and latched his chart to the front of his bed. Her eyebrows raised and she pushed the loose strand of blond hair behind her ear as she motioned to John’s bag of clothes with the other one.

 

“Where’d you get that?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whispers kind of short sorry whispers

Sherlock sat outside John’s hospital room, facing the door and with his back to the opposite wall. His knees were pulled up close to his chest and his head leant back against the wall, looking up at the gray ceiling above him.He counted the dots on this gray ceiling and how many tiles stretched across it. He multiplied both of those and the diameter of the dots to come up with how long and wide the hallway was. Sherlock then decided to wander in his mind palace. He created a new room just for the man that had attacked John and filled all he could tell about him in this room. He placed this specific room in between torture methods and the ever expanding room of weapons for a slow death. 

When John’s nurse finally returned she paused and looked down at him. Sherlock looked back, closing the gate to his mind palace.

Older and younger siblings. Middle child of a large family. Overbearing father yet kind mother. 

She shifted, her hand poised on the door knob and looked as though she would say something to Sherlock. After another beat of a moment she sighed and shook her head, deciding to let the man stand guard if he really wanted to. She knocked quietly and disappeared into the room once more.

Sherlock sighed himself, refusing to move from the wall he was sitting against like a cat refusing to admit loyalty to its human.

The hallway had become silent to Sherlock. It had grown that way since John had told him to leave. He was oblivious to the hum of life and energy as people passed by him every so often. Sherlock raised his head as a stretcher passed, doctors and nurses desperately trying to get a woman to breath that was already gone. 

Sherlock wondered when they would stop trying. If they were anything like John they wouldn’t stop until someone had to tell them a hundred times that hey were gone. He never understood the caring lot. How they could throw away reason to chase hope and the possibility that this one person may live. Sherlock wondered what it was really like, to care like that.

His attention snapped back to John’s door as he heard a yelp from behind it and he sat tense, muscles poised to rush into the room if he heard anything more. Minutes passed and there was nothing. Sherlock sat back against the wall.

Yes, he wondered what it was like to care. He felt nothing of the sort. Not him. Not Sherlock Holmes the machine.

~~~~

About an hour later the door opened again and the nurse with blond hair stepped out and stroked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sherlock looked up at her and stood, folding his coat over his arm that he had shrugged off half an hour before. 

“We’ll probably keep him for the week just to make sure he is healing properly.” She said looking down at her chart and glancing up at the clock at the end of the hallway. “Will have to sign him up for physical therapy as well.” She trailed off and then glanced up at Sherlock. “He’s finally sleeping now.”

“Good.” Sherlock muttered.

“Go home. Get some rest.” Her eyes were soft and she hugged the clipboard to her chest. 

“No. The detective inspector is going to be here soon. I want to be there. Have to be there.” The last part Sherlock did not say out loud. 

The nurse tilted her head at him. “You can be there if Mr. Watson wants you there.”

Sherlock was looking down at her now that he was standing. He simply looked back after this comment and nodded his head, his eyes must have shown some sort of emotion that he had wanted to keep back for the young lady sighed deeply and nodded towards the door.

“You can go in. Wake him and I will hunt you down.” She pointed her pen accusingly at him. “He knows to call me if you do.”

Sherlock almost smiled. He opted instead for nodding once more with tight lips. “Thank you uh…”

“It’s Mary.”

“Thank you Mary.”

~~~~

John was laying on his stomach on the bed. He now wore his jumper Sherlock had brought and a pair of sweatpants the hospital must have supplied for him. Sherlock wondered why he was even allowed to wear those in the first place but remembered with a drop of his stomach why he was in this specific section of the ICU. Rape victims being allowed to choose whether they would wear regular clothes or not.

His hair was wet and slicked back with gentle comb marks running through his blond hair. Mary must have helped him get into a shower and Sherlock wondered how that had gone. The picture of John struggling to get up and walk to the shower and strongly refusing any help to get his clothes off and ultimately needing help anyway filled his head and he frowned, not wanting to think about this anymore. Perhaps that was the yelp he had heard. Sherlock sighed and sat next to John once more, lifting the chair to make sure no sound was heard as he paced to the other side of John and set down the chair with a soft thump of the bottom of the chair. John’s only reaction was to sigh in his sleep.

Sherlock sat with his legs crossed underneath him. He watched the man sleeping in front of him and noted how different he seemed to look to him.

The lines under his eyes had seemed to deepen. The left had purple spreading underneath it like a child had dropped his paintbrush there and stained it that color permanently. Sherlock tipped his head to the side to see the scrape that had run across John’s cheek. His eyes trailed down unfeeling until he reached the finger shaped bruises on his neck. His brow then furrowed and the anger he had managed to suppress for all this time boiled in his stomach and reached up his throat with burning fingers. 

He had to look away and stop trailing his eyes down to see even more of John’s injuries. He would likely scream or throw up by the way his throat was burning from anger if he did. Both of those were very unacceptable now. 

Sherlock did not have much time to look away and calm down before he heard a small noise in John’s direction. He turned immediately and shifted forward. 

The doctors face had contorted in pain, his head craning into the pillow his face was pressed to and a low whine escaping his lips as he did so. 

Sherlock’s heart ceased its beating. 

John’s breathing had now grown ragged and labored, his lips twitching and the hand that Sherlock could see fisted the sheets below him. 

The machine’s mind raced and searched for what to do. Going over the possibilities of what he should do and the possible outcomes and reactions for those actions. 

John’s body had started wriggling on the bed and his adams apple bobbed brokenly, a soft cry just barely escaping his tightly shut lips. 

Suddenly Sherlock reacted. He did not think and did not calculate results of this action but simply acted on what he thought was right. He shifted himself even further on the chair he sat on with his feet now touching the ground, and reached his hand out to John’s. Sherlock took the shaking hand gently in his and rubbed his thumb across John’s knuckles. John seemed to want to instinctively pull away yet Sherlock found himself hushing the grown man with a voice he did not know he possessed. John’s panic dwindled and the convulsing his body had resorted to to try and get himself away from his dream slowed to a slow shake. His chest still rose and fell with broken and unsteady movements and on occasion John would whine or let a low keen leave his trembling lips. 

“John.” Sherlock said softly.

As if on cue, John was released from the grip of his nightmare. His eyes flew open and the tears that had been trapped underneath them fell from his face like rain running down a car window. He flinched violently and went to recoil his hand before he realized who was the one holding it. He looked up slowly at Sherlock. 

As soon as their eyes met John looked away and turned his head to the opposite side. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled. 

“Don’t be.” Sherlock returned. He went to pull his hand away, fearing John did not want it there. Yet when he did John only held on tighter, his fingers returning the pressure Sherlock’s gave. 

Sherlock sighed lightly and ran his thumb over John’s knuckles once more. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll… be here when you wake up.” Sherlock said quietly. 

The snow fell gently across the window on the other side of this empty room and Sherlock sat back in his chair, moving it closer so he could keep a grip on John’s hand. Sherlock watched the snow and thought to himself how remarkable something so freezing and icy, could stir such a warm feeling through his chest. Remarkable.


	6. Chapter 6

Bright blue eyes. Light brown hair with a square face and a set jaw. Broad shoulders and large, rough hands. Taller than John by at least two heads or maybe more. No heart existent. Dick that needs to be ripped off of him. 

Sherlock scrolled on London’s list of sexual assault crimes and attacks. So far the pictures that had shown up looked nothing like what John had described in the hospital a week ago. 

The man himself was currently sleeping on the sofa, laying on his stomach and snoring softly, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. 

Two days back and John had barely moved from that position. Had barely eaten anything except what he had gotten himself and had spoken even less. He did not want to try and go up the stairs to his room yet and refused Sherlock’s invitation to switch spots with him. John would be able to actually use the bed and Sherlock could just stay on the sofa. 

It was as if John were punishing himself and Sherlock could not fathom why. 

He sighed and continued to scroll down the site, his one hand resting on the arm of his chair supporting his head while the other rested on the laptop, forefinger and and thumb scrolling and clicking when needed. Sherlock had grown terribly, horribly, bored and had resorted to watching some movie John had fallen asleep watching, while in between looking over each man and woman on the page.

Sherlock realized with about ten minutes left in the movie that he was watching Raiders of The Lost Ark and wondered quietly to himself if there was going to be a marathon on. 

Five minutes into The Temple Of Doom and Sherlock almost jolted out of his seat from the man staring back at him from his laptop. The blanket wrapped tightly around him tangled in his limbs and his balance was knocked when the arms tried to break free. He caught himself halfway to face planting in the carpet and looked back to John who only shifted himself in response. 

When he had himself back and properly upright in his chair he peered over the smug face in the mugshot on the screen. The man John described would not be smart enough to change eye color with lenses or dye his hair every other month or so. He would be arrogant. He would be the kind of man that knew what he was doing and liked it and planned to keep doing it without being caught. So, smart enough to stay mostly out of sight, yet not enough to hide himself away. 

He probably likes himself too much to change anything. 

The same man with the same characteristics and smug ass look on his face smiled back at him and Sherlock felt the boiling in his stomach spike once again as he clicked on the page for him. 

Jack William Colin Ranger.  
Six feet and five inches tall and two hundred and fifty pounds. So, solid and harder to take down. Look for weak spots in body to pinpoint where to hit first. His groin would be a good guess.

Sherlock was interrupted in his scanning when John’s voice sounded behind him. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” His voice was hoarse from disuse. 

Sherlock almost slammed his laptop down and turned to him. “Nothing, John. Watching Indiana Jones which you have roped me into. Why?”

John was hesitant. “Nothing.. Just thought…” John shrugged and pulled himself to an upright position on the couch, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. Sherlock watched him, wondering if he would question further, John was not a stupid man. He knew what he saw. Perhaps he did not feel like arguing with him now. Or maybe he just did not want to hear the name again. 

“John,” Sherlock spoke up as he cleared his throat, “you really should sleep in my room.”

“No i’m fine Sherlock. I’ll go up to mine tonight.” 

“Do you really think you’ll be able to.” 

“Going to have to at some point.”

“It’s only been two days.”

“Maybe i’ll be running up and down it in a week.” John said though there was not a trace of humor in his tone. Sherlock watched him more, feeling the ache in John’s bones as if it were his pain as well. This is one of the longest conversations Sherlock had been able to get out of John and he wondered if it would last. 

John’s attention was swung to the movie and he watched in silence for a while until the scene with the kid driving the car came on. 

“He annoys me.” John mumbled. 

“His character is not ideal. He should have died several times in the movie.”

“But then Indy would have died.” 

Sherlock hummed slightly and decided not to say anything back. The two watched in almost complete silence, Sherlock being the one to comment on a plot hole or how no one could survive leaping out of a plane with only a life raft. The weight of the two people and the force of the landing would never sustain it. John told him to just watch the movie. 

~~~~

“You’re not going after him.” John said, not looking up from his chinese that he had barely touched. Sherlock had typed something into his computer before looking up into the emptiness of the kitchen. The voice that had spoken out to him sounded unfamiliar and strained. He remembered John was in the living room and had to raise his voice slightly to answer. 

“I never said I was.”

“Yes you did.”

“Once.”

“You’re not Sherlock. I can’t let you.” 

Sherlock sighed and continued typing on his laptop. “It’s not a question of you being able to stop me.” 

“No. Because I wouldn’t be able to. It’s me trusting you to not throw yourself into something again. Or to accept Lestrade's asking for help with it.” John pushed his rice to the other side of the plate. 

“Lestrade said they had people on it. They don’t need me.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not going to try anyway.” John muttered and pushed the rice back to the opposite side.

“John, we cannot keep having this conversation. He deserves to be caught. He has to be caught and if they do not find him soon I will do it myself if I have to. And stop playing with your food.” 

John looked up and to the doorway of the kitchen. He sighed and bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want you to get hurt you idiot.”

Sherlock looked up and stared and the stove top. “I’m not going to.” He replied before continuing. 

“Don’t do anything stupid. Promise.” John raised a fork to the air and in the direction where he could not see Sherlock. There was a silence that followed and John repeated his statement. “Sherlock Holmes you will not go after him.” 

Sherlock fought the urge to hurl something at the man and blinked when he realized how very much he would not want to do that. “Yes. I promise.” Sherlock said through slightly grit teeth. “Now eat something.”

John pushed his rice to the other side once more. 

~~~~ 

Sherlock shrugged on his coat in the darkness of the flat and grabbed his scarf from off the wrung he had placed it on. The moon traced smooth lines across the floor and trailed up whatever it touched. Soft beams of light rested on his chair, the desk, his violin, and on John Watson’s sleeping face. He paused, watching John shift with a pained expression on his face and listened to the low whine leave his mouth from the pain of doing so. Sherlock sighed and paced over, laying another blanket over John as gently as he was able to. He lightly patted it as John had done at times when Sherlock was sick or moody and walked back to the door. 

He had gotten John to change out of his clothes but that was it. The plate in front of him was still as full as it was hours ago. 

Sherlock’s brow set in a determined stare as he turned and opened the door to the stairs. Sherlock looked back, his hand tightening around the doorknob before he closed it behind him, a cool air blowing through the flat to wish a farewell to him as he parted.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (bit of a shorter one i apologize)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a madman with a mad plan and he waits for us to stumble." 
> 
> -Awlnation

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” A man sand at the corner of a street ringing a bell with a bucket to some charity written across it. “Soon the bells will riiiiing!” The man sang out in a startlingly high falsetto that made Sherlock wince as he passed him. Sherlock sighed, turning his collar up against the icy wind and pressing his gloved hand against his scarf so it covered his mouth. 

A new type of determination heated its way through Sherlock’s skin. Melting away the snow falling on his head and shoulders and turning the snow he walked upon into slush. The flakes seemed to steam off of him like some sort of animated character spewing out steam from its ears in anger. 

His insides boiled and shot flames of hate up to his lungs and his throat with the mental image of the surprise on Jack’s face keeping them burning against the wind and the snow.The thought of him suffering for what he did to John drove his steps forward and parted the wave of people in front of him. 

The school of fish parting this time for an electric eel. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he sighed, practically ripping his jacket open to get to it.

Little brother, what are you doing? MH

Sherlock ignored it for some time until it buzzed once more. The second buzz seeming very much like Mycroft’s lecture voice. 

Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. MH

And there the lecture voice was. He could practically hear it now.

I’m not the one being stupid, Mycroft. SH

No? Then what do you call going after a serial rapist by yourself? MH

I call it actually getting off my arse and finding who raped John Watson. SH

Revenge is not the way to go about this. MH

Piss off SH

~~~~

Sherlock stood across the street from a bar with his arms crossed over his chest and his body leaning against a light post that seemed to be on the brink of freezing over completely. The snow had stopped but the wind was persistent and blowing in his face as if it was urging him to turn around and go back home to where it was warm and inviting and safe. 

There was a large window at the front of the building that Sherlock stood across from and he could practically see everyone inside save for the other rooms and the ones at the very back. He checked the name of the bar once more and noted that it was the very same one in Jack’s cycle of pubs he frequented. 

The music vibrated in his chest and bounced about his ribs as if someone were beating a drum inside them, his heart was suddenly beating to the bass of whatever song that was playing and he marveled at the power music could have over the human body. 

He stood there for a considerable amount of time, watching men and women come pass by the window or get up and leave from the bar, some being pulled away by another and some from rejection of another. 

One man, however, did not move from where he was insistingly talking to another man. A man that clearly, even from across the street, did not want to be talking with him. Sherlock stepped forward. 

Light brown hair. Large shoulders. 

Turn around. Turn around. 

The other man shifted away from this brown haired stranger. Sherlock decided to cross the street. He would not allow this to happen and would stop Jack before-

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock turned sharply. Greg Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him when he came into Sherlock’s harsh gaze. Sherlock, upon realising it was him, shrugged away from Lestrade and practically hissed at him. 

“What are you doing here?” He demanded.

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.” Lestrade responded. 

“Oh don’t tell me Mycroft sent you.” 

“He did. Oh don’t look at me like that.” Lestrade turned and revealed the line of police cars coming down the street. “I took it as a chance to come and get him now that we’ve got him. Knew you’d find him.” He clapped Sherlock on the arm and smiled slightly. 

“No but-”

“Sherlock, go home. It’s alright. We’ll get him.”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, the fire in his stomach suddenly being power washed away. He was reluctant and did not move. Lestrade called a cab for him and once he told the driver where Sherlock was going he turned back. 

“Listen, Sherlock, it’ll be alright. John needs you to be alright and believe it or not you need him. Go and relax. You two need a holiday.”

Sherlock watched Lestrade, silent and sullen and even a little disappointed that he could not see Jack being hauled out into the street. 

“Be sure to tell me when he’s in jail.” Was all he muttered in response. 

“Will do.” Lestrade said, closing the door after Sherlock as he climbed in. 

~~~~

Sherlock, that wasn’t Jack Ranger at the pub. GL

What? SH


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna start this by apologizing until one of you tells me to shut up. imsorryimsorryimsorry  
> I have no reason as to why this hasn't been updated in so long so if people are (were) actually reading this and enjoying it I am very, very sorry because wow my motivational spirit has found an ocean and hidden at the bottom of it...  
> So yes, hope you enjoy  
> ((also let me add I am going to be editing and rewriting some of John's rape scene so please do bear with me))
> 
> Poem in the beginning is "To a Stranger" by Walt Whitman

“Passing Stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to meas of a dream,)” A voice speaks to the hushed air of London. The winds wipes the voice away, the words of Walt Whitman being swept into the air as they continue and step forward and up to the threshold of 221b Bakerstreet. “I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you. All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,” The hush voice calls to the other as if he is there on the other side of this door waiting for him. But he is, is he not? The cold air sweeps away his mind and he stoops.

“You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,” the door is popped open and a hand stops it from becoming too loud. A large shadow fills the voice and steps into the first landing of two hundred and twenty one Bakerstreet. In contrast to the large hulk of a shadow, the voice is soft and sweet as it sings through the air with soft wings that only the mind of the voice (or one listening for him) itself could hear.

A creaky step has him stopping frozen. A waft from behind him has his head whipping back and the gun from inside his pocket to hurtle out with timed practice. It is only the wind urging him to go further and he breathes out, relaxing once again. “You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return.” His eyes close and he hums just an octave louder than he wanted, his favorite line.

 

The top of the stairs has him looking at a dark wooden door, not a light on beneath it that he can see. He turns, stairs to the left of him that he almost goes up before he hears the shift and sigh of a person beyond the door. A smile curls around his lips and Jack Ranger pushes the door open with itching fingers.

 

_I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or_

_wake at night alone,_

_I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,_

_I am to see to it that I do not lose you._

__

~~~~

_Smarter than he looks? No. Impossible._ Sherlock thinks to himself as his leg bobs up and down with restless anxiety, the cabbie being paid extra to follow the way Sherlock told him.

~~~~

“How could you have found me?” John demands, breathless in the kitchen with a knife in his clenched, outstretched, hand. His jumper is ripped but it does not matter as he watches Jack where he stands with his hands up on the opposite side of the table. John’s other hand is feeling slowly behind him.

“I found you once. How could I fuck up finding you again?”

“You didn’t find me you were standing around at a bar waiting.”

“For you.”

“You liar, shut up.”

Jack shrugs his broad shoulders and steps forward. John reacts and steps to the side. Jack steps, John steps once more.

“I’d like to dance with you closer, if we’re going to do it.”

“What do you want?” The knife is raised once again and John suddenly feels as if he is in a black and white horror movie. He playing the part of the innocent, middle aged white woman holding a butcher knife to her sudden turned psychopath husband. The scene in his mind is not too far away from the one he sees with his own eyes.

“You didn’t tell me you were John Watson. The John Watson.”

“What are you-”

“ _Help Sherlock!_ ” Jack suddenly cries, bringing his hands up in a limp shake in front of his face as his voice reaches a mocking, humiliating, tone. John flinches as he does so, the knife wavering. “There’s not too many, Sherlock’s in the world now are there?” The man says, stepping up so his torso is pressed to the table. He leans against it. “He’s not home now? I’m guessing not by the way you threw yourself to his bedroom and no one came to the damsels rescue. That is it isn’t it, down that hall?” His hand moves but his eyes do not. They are dead and cold against the pale light. John cannot feel his fingers anymore.

The moon shines through the windows of the living space and the light above the stove is the only one in the flat beside a candle on the fireplace mantel. John is illuminated by it, his frame lit around the edges like a work of art on display. Jack is in only the end of it, his square jaw leaning into it and as his head tilts, half of his face is covered in darkness.

“Couldn’t get enough of you, really.” Jack continues on, he moves but John warns him not to. Jack rolls his eyes. “I wanted to see you again, John. Didn’t you want to see me? You weren’t missing me? Have you forgotten me, Johnny?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“No? Fine then I’ll call you a slut. Cheating on Sherly with me, even if I am a much better choice.” Jack suddenly pauses and shakes his head. “No, no, you cheated on me didn’t you?” Jack points an accusing finger, smiling widely as he is enjoying himself to the point of giggling a horrible sound. He rounds the table and through John’s protest and warning he pulls out of gun and points it at his face while inching closer. “And cheating on me is not nice, slut. It is a punishable act.”

His eyes have changed. John felt them do so as if they had sounded out while doing it. They were suddenly consumed with such emotion that John could feel the longing and lust shudder through Jack’s eyes and onto his own skin. He has suddenly forgotten about the knife as it clanks to the ground with a dull sound. Later he will yell at himself for years to come about this very action.

Jack’s hand lunges out and John smacks it away with his own numb hand. His feet are pushing against the ground. He cannot seem to get away fast enough and suddenly there is no ground under them. Sent crashing to the ground he yells out, catching himself with pulsing arms. His ears are ringing and hands are grabbing his skin and jumper and pajama pants, yanking and scratching and hitting and pulling until suddenly he is dragged by his ankles. Dragged kicking and swearing across the carpeted floor that burns his exposed skin.

He is picked up and John tries to run. He is rewarded by getting the wind slammed out of him by a solid fist to his gut. John is smacked across the face and thrown onto his armchair. Solid things that pass as calfs press themselves on either side of John, pinning his hands under them before he can even react. Jack is straddling him on his own chair, his hands pressing against his chest and torso rocking into John’s own. John wriggles and squirms and pulls his head away.

John is still as there is suddenly lips sucking at his neck. His head cranes away and his body has suddenly gone limp at the prospect of it happening again. Not again. Not again it couldn’t. Jack hums at John’s stillness, holding John’s jaw up with an iron grip now as the man makes a small noise that seems out of place against the mans struggling not a moment ago.

“What next Joh-”

 **  
**There is a loud slam that suddenly echoes through the flat that has both of the men flinch. Jack’s head is thrown towards the suddenly agar door and is met with a solid smack to the side of his face. Pale, slender, familiar, hands drag the monster off of John and throw him against the side of the coffee table. He flies against the corner of it with a loud gasp and a moan of pain. Sherlock Holmes steps over to take Jack’s head and slam it against the dark hard wood of the coffee table, while successfully throwing his knee up and into the man’s rib cage with a satisfying crack.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV 
> 
> ((guys im so sorry im gonna get better at posting i swear))

He laughs at me as I hit him again. He fucking laughed at me god how could he fucking- My fists are slamming into his face and throwing him against the ground and I am on his chest. My knees pressing his diaphragm in so he won’t get any air in because he stole air from John. He doesn’t deserve air. He doesn’t deserve to live and I can fix that. I am pulling him up by his hair and slamming him down until theres blood underneath him and I am hitting and yelling and I’m so angry he touched John. He hurt John. He raped John. I am screaming at him and it doesn’t matter that he’s gone limp under me it doesn’t matter I’ll--

“Sherlock! Sherlock stop!” John is yelling behind me and I ignore him can’t he see that this is the man that-

“Sherlock please!” His voice cracks and breaks off at the end as a sob exits his mouth that I know he has covered with his hands that tremble against his face. I blink back into reality and look down at the excessive amount of red below me. The man isn’t moving. He is laying under my legs limp and lifeless? No. He’s breathing. Hitched and slow but breathing. 

I turn around to John and he’s staring at me horrified. I get myself to step away from the monster on the ground and try to hide the blood on my hands as if I am telling him I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me dad. He looks away from me and further back. I kneel in front of him instantly and shake my head. 

“Don’t, John. It’s fine. It’s good he’s gone. Just look at me, alright?” He is looking anywhere but at me and I touch his knee. He recoils and jerks away, stilling as he comes back to the John I know. He looks at my hand and looks to me. I know he doesn’t see me. He sees the man that just attacked his attacker and showed I was no better than he. I swallow and stand. “Can I touch you, John.”

“No.” It is instant and jerked out of his mouth as if by surprise. He stammers slightly and looks away. “I uh-.. I mean-”

“No. It’s okay just listen to me.” I step away just slightly, looking back to make sure John can see no part of the man. “Close your eyes, John.”

“N-”

“It’s fine. It’s me. Listen to me..please.” 

John closes his eyes slowly. His chest is rising and falling too fast and I tell myself I can’t panic. Not now, not in front of John. I move and John goes to open his eyes. “No, John. Eyes closed it’s fine now.” He closes them once more. There is an off look to him and I decide not to address him in that tone again. John Watson is not to be coddled over. He would never want that and I almost apologize.

I do not. I turn back and grab the man breathing slowly on the ground that touched John. I drag him by his arms out to the landing and throw him to the ground. Stifling anger inside my chest I call Lestrade and tell him if he is not here in less than two seconds the Yard will be sued and I will tell Molly he has a feelings for her. (Humans.) 

A blanket is set down where the blood once was and I look at it from John’s point of view; deciding to move his favorite pillow and a cold, half empty, cup of tea there as well. 

“Alright. Open your eyes.” He does so and John looks back behind me. He stares there as if a magic act has been performed and the look on his face is troubling. I turn my head. “No you weren’t dreaming. You haven’t gone crazy on me have you, John Watson?” 

He only looks back at me, but the expression has changed. I wonder if he wishes it were just a fever dream. 

He does. 

~~~

As demanded Lestrade is the only one to come up until I say otherwise. He falters on the opening of the landing. 

“Jesus-” He breathes out as if he has not seen this any other day of his life and I glare at him from where I have stayed kneeling in front of John. The man himself has his head in one of his hands and Lestrade stops when he sees him.

“I swear to god if you stop again Molly will know of every sex fantasy and drunk call you’ve given me of your plans with her. Get him out now.” 

Lestrade flinches, horror written on his face of the prospect and turns back to Detective Inspector mode. Nodding his head he leans over to look at Jack. “Is he?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

~~~

John insisted on staying where he was. He only said an actual request to do so once to me. I made sure they did not touch him in response. They had to move my facade of a happy home and took the rug away to reveal the blood stains and scuffs. I am talking to him all the while. Asking him if he’s seen whats-her-face or if Indiana Jones was on at all or.. or his doctoring duties and such but I don’t know I only want him to look at me and so far it’s working until Lestrade picks at my arm beside me. I flick my hand away and almost hiss at him. 

“Did you do that to him?” He asks quietly before I can get anything in. 

I blink at him. “Yes, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock.” 

“He was dangerous and attacking John. Look at my face he hit me as well.”

I glance at John who has turned away from both of us. He looks at though he cannot hear anything. 

Lestrade is looking over at John as well. He considers, moving his thumbs slightly before nodding his head. “I’ll talk to someone.”

“You are someone.”

“Exactly.” He stand and places a hand on my shoulder before leaving the room and telling everyone to clean up and leave. 

Several heads turn to John.

“He’s not leaving.” 

John suddenly stands to my horror and I try to do something to stop him. He ignores me as I touch his shoulders and limps as little as he can to the bathroom down the hall. I watch, numb on the ground and waiting for John to collapse. He doesn’t. The door closes behind him and the world starts to spin once more. 

Brave John Watson against the world. 

My legs cross under me and my elbows lean against my knees, hands steepled under my chin. 

~~~~

 

“I’d like to try… Petting your hair.” 

“What?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mm no sorry this is my fic im gonna post a one sentence one if i want  
> bows
> 
> thenewchapterwillbeuptomorrow
> 
> also John's POV

He came back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised

There was a small knock at the door of the bathroom. John did not look up from where he sat beside the bathtub. He had kept the lights off and was currently drowning in this darkness. It wrapped around his shoulders and fitted its long arms around his chest that came in and out slowly with cautious shudders. John closed his eyes to it and tipped his head back as the knock came once more.

“John.” The deep voice whispered outside, his feet covering the small bit of light from the crack in the door. “Everyone’s gone now.” He stated, pausing for a long while and John could hear him pace away and then back. “Well i’m… making tea- not for you… obviously but-” Sherlock cleared his throat and John opened his eyes, looking towards the small crack. 

“There’s going to be some left over. I’m not going to drink all of it… Come and have some. If you want.” 

John listened to the shifting of Sherlock’s bare feet against the carpet and imagined him considering coming in: Touching the door knob and pulling away before touching it once more perhaps. John looked back as he saw the silhouette of the feet disappear. His response to Sherlock’s request as the man left was to lay down fully. His arms wrapped around his own chest and his neck shifted backwards. The cool tiles were already making lines on his cheek when his shoulders slacked and his arms loosened from their hold. The blanket around him changed from one of darkness to exhaustion. He slept a fitful sleep of tremors and small noises that the conscious John Watson would want no one to hear. 

He stayed like this until Sherlock came to tell him he could not stay there forever. This was met with more silence. The door was slid open and the light flick on, John’s unconscious body flinching to the sudden change. Sherlock sighed and stooped, picking his much too light body up and laying him back on the couch instead of his room of which he had not seen since he came back home. A blanket was awkwardly patted onto him and John turned, sighing in his sleep. Sherlock sighed with him and shifted, sitting himself down on the coffee table that still bore splatters of Jack’s blood. Sherlock tipped his head at the pale looking man, cataloging the bruise flourishing on his cheek bone to store away in his palace. 

Sherlock tentatively reached his hand out. The slender lines of fingers traced the ones John made himself with the tiles. 

Those would leave soon. How long until the rest of them? How long until John?

~~

Mycroft. SH

My, you’re talking to me a lot lately. It’s very tedious. MH

He won’t speak to me. SH

He barely looks at me. SH

He won’t eat. SH

Have you told him about the new therapist? MH

He won’t want it. He won’t eat unless he get’s or makes it himself. SH

Convince him. MH

He needs it. MH

~~

John was in his chair, his legs up and his book balancing on one of his knees. The room was lit with the last few hours of light; orange flittering across John’s hair and neck. The shadow of Sherlock’s chair filling in the rest besides an occasional finger lifting to turn a page. The first time John felt close to okay in a week was there on his chair in the afternoon glory. The first time in a week he could breath just a bit easier without collapsing in a fit of panic when someone would ring the doorbell or Sherlock would do something with his experiments. 

The page turned and he flinched as Sherlock was suddenly sitting in his chair watching him carefully. He had tried this before. Simply sitting in front of the man for hours on end, waiting for a response or a shift of uncomfortableness. The later of which he would turn away and leave; not wanting to cause John any more pain. But John had gotten used to it, Sherlock had sat in front of him to study his face and what went on with it from time to time. He had sat unmoving most times for cases anyway so.. 

So he sat here, his hands steepled in their usual position as he watched John turn his pages quietly and scratch at his head or rub at his bruises from time to time. They stayed like this; Sherlock looking up and John down, until the one looking up shifted and stood, stepping towards the man with his book. 

“I’d like to try… Petting your hair.” He said looking down intently. 

“What?” Came out of John’s mouth almost instantly and Sherlock was almost shocked at the appearance of his voice. He had started to wonder if it would ever come back. John must have as well by the look on his face. He shifted and looked back down. 

“Petting your hair. Like a cat. Humans tend to like that sort of thing.”

“You are human..” John muttered quietly, turning his page and putting his hand in the seam of the book to keep his spot as he looked cautiously up to the taller man. 

“A sound judgement.” Sherlock held his hand out to John. “I mean it. I want to try it. It’s said to be very calming and would reduce your headaches quite a lot.” 

John blinked, not even having told Sherlock about his headaches that swam in and out of his daily routines. Well.. the new routine. Sherlock persisted, leaning forward with his hand. John only watched it. 

“I don’t know.” John replied in his sudden new-found voice that Sherlock did not enjoy as much as his old one. It lacked the John that he knew. John felt the same. 

“Just say the word and I will make sure you are off of me and I won’t try to touch you again for the rest of the day. The week.” Sherlock offered. 

John hesitated, looking up at Sherlock’s eyes before shrugging slightly and taking his hand. 

~

Sherlock brought John to the sofa and motioned him to pick a side. John sat at his habitual left, (Left being his dominant side, Sherlock commented to himself) and sat awkwardly as Sherlock sat a good distance away from him. The taller man kicked his feet up on the coffee table. 

“It’s alright if I touch you?” Sherlock asked. John nodded his head in return and with that Sherlock reached out his hand and took John’s opposite shoulder and gently pulled him down. His hands shifted so he took both of the man’s (now thinner than his) shoulders until the back of his head was leaning on Sherlock’s thigh. John looked up uncomfortably at Sherlock and Sherlock tried to smile down at him. The look he got back in return was one a puppy would give its owner doing something stupid.

“Just close your eyes and trust me.” Sherlock murmured, waiting for the man to mull over the idea before closing his eyes slowly. 

John had expected something close to what a small child would do as they found a cat for the first time, pressing their hand at its back and rubbing back roughly. 

What he got instead was Sherlock’s slender fingers threading through his hair in slow ruffles. They were softer than he imagined and when they ran through his hair he let out a small breath. Sherlock hummed, telling him to at least try and relax for him. John tensed immediately after and Sherlock pulled his hands away as the man’s breathing hitched. 

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to..” Sherlock sat up.

“No.. No it’s.. I’m-”

“I can leave.”

“Don’t.” John let out, stopping himself as he said so. “I mean..” 

Sherlock hushed him slightly, lowering John back down and threading his fingers again. John sighed, trying hard to relax his shoulders. 

~

Sherlock’s fingers had begun to knead into John’s head as he felt the man under him sink lower on his lap. Sherlock’s right hand left trails of warmth as the circles that moved across his scalp while his left thumb rubbed back and forth at the bottom of John’s head. The man underneath sighed, his breathing steady and slow as Sherlock continued. Sherlock unconsciously brushed the man’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, John lifted his head up to meet it before his let out a soft breath. 

To Sherlock, John here and now, was beautiful. The man had always thought his soldier was but here; laying on his lap with the golden sun illuminated his eyelashes with an innocent and vulnerable look. He was perfect and no bruise or scrape or challenge to his dignity could change that.

John’s eyes fluttered open after some time, just barely looking up at Sherlock before moving his cheek and giving a soft sound of content, falling under shortly after. 

He stayed like that for the hours that John slept. He slept himself from time to time; coming in and out of consciousness when he was not walking through his mind palace or texting Mycroft for details of John’s new therapist. 

Why the sudden flood of emotions? Has he not been injured before? MH

Not like this. SH

And don’t talk to me about my emotions. Tell me when his first appointment is. SH

In two days. MH

Sherlock looked up from his phone and down at the sleeping man on his lap. 

He won’t like that. SH

Convince him. MH


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the support guys

“So? How’d it go? Called Sherlock down the stairs as he leaned against the door frame of the living space. John appeared rounding the corner and the look he had transmitted almost had the taller man ducking. 

“You bloody fucking-”

John had been dressed in all new clothes; a slick black flannel was fitted with a white tie under a maroon jumper. Tucked into the jeans that mysteriously fit perfectly around his hips and legs. (The jumper at first was worn loose until Sherlock blocked John’s way out the door until he’d tuck it in.) The only things old and familiar were his tan shoes, the jean bottoms cuffed to just reveal them. 

Now the jumper was pulled away and the flannel out from under it.  
“You’re a wanker you know that?” John yelled, throwing his cane up the stairs with a solid slam just shy of Sherlock’s frame and against the wall. Sherlock opened his mouth yet stopped as John limped the rest of the way of the stairs up to the landing.   
In this close proximity Sherlock could see just how furious and...hurt(?) the man was. 

“It’s bad enough I’m dressed in this shit-”

“You look-”

“-and it’s also bad enough that I’ve got to drag that bloody thing cause hey, guess who’s a cripple now!” John was screaming, his speech suddenly bursting out of him after weeks of repressed nothingness like a capped bottle rocket. Sherlock did not stop him. “But no. That’s not even bad enough! On top of that I am dragged out of bed to go to a therapist appointment!” John suddenly threw his hands up and pushed his way past Sherlock who followed with a concealed look. “A new therapist! How could you do that to me, Sherlock?” That line seemed to echo out against the walls and back to the detective’s ears with a sudden clap against his ears. It was almost sobbed out; a choke leaving his throat at the end of the sentence that he struggled to regain. The detective blinked. The look Sherlock had concealed dropped and his followed with a sort of ‘o’ shape. This was not John’s usual shouting bouts. He would remain confident and blow off steam until he would feel better. Now, the bear inside of John was asleep. A hurt and broken man looked back at him instead.

Sherlock was not prepared for this and John watched his face fall out of his acting of empathy to a true and solid concern. John’s own changed with it. 

“Did you think this was going to help me?” John asked in a low and quiet voice. 

“You usually respond to anger.”

“Oh my god.” John pressed his hands to his face in disbelief. “You thought leaving me on the step of some home. My first time away from our house in… that doesn’t-- you left me basically on a damn curb telling me two minutes before it’s a new therapist and oh heres your cane that you have resented since you’ve gotten back.” John wasn’t angry anymore. His voice had remained yet his spirit withered as he stated these facts to the open air.   
Sherlock stood calculating. 

The brain computed and thought. 

The heart pumped slowly on. 

“I thought you would respond to anger.”

“You don’t just leave someone that..” John cleared his throat once again and shook his head, trying to move away from him. 

Sherlock stepped in his way. “I uh.. You..” Sherlock held up a finger. “I had wanted to get you talking again.” Sherlock opened his eyes. “You have lost ten pounds- no- eleven since you’ve been back. You wouldn’t- you’re not.. You’re not yourself.” 

John looked at him steadily. 

“No.” He shook his head, a sad smile lingering on his lips as he moved to the side. “No, I’m not.” John moved away from Sherlock, and limped the rest of the way up the stairs to his room; the first time in weeks. 

~~~

Small things always got to Sherlock Holmes. The smallest detail on the smallest grain of salt could be enough to drive him in and inspect it until there was nothing left but small atoms if he could find it so possible. But it was the small things of life at 221b that seemed to stick with him most. Most would snicker or see Sherlock as some sentimental man taking domesticity to heart. The man would reveal them their deepest secrets to get them to think the opposite and fit back the mask that sentiment was a human error he himself could fall prey to. 

A small thing of the life at 221b Bakerstreet was the small sounds of humming that would come from the kitchen on Saturday mornings at John’s prompt to hour to get up and ready. Sherlock would listen in his bed sometimes if he would feel fit to and listen as the low humming would move to singing in the lightest sense. The fact that John Watson would ever be capable of such a soft, low rumble had Sherlock speechless and finding himself getting up early to listen. Sentiment. 

The singing sometimes would get louder if John thought Sherlock was being loud enough himself to block it out. The songs would vary but most were the repetitive and almost nausea inducing hits of the time. 

Sherlock would always complain to John that he was doing so and John would shut his mouth immediately, an almost blush moving across his face and a clearing of throat. Sherlock never let on that those first few moments of the morning air filled with John’s voice were what woke him each day. 

John never sings now. 

He doesn’t hum and he doesn’t get up at his habitual hour if he did at all. 

John Watson was changing and Sherlock needed him back.


End file.
